In Being Left Standing
by Mostly Suzanne
Summary: It's CJ's story really, in which we learn that there is a certan loneliness to bing the one left standing. That and some motife about knots and light. But who can write about CJ without also writing about him? includes pre and post admin. three parts. R


I decided to read the original first, many comments will apply equally to this piece.  
  
Author: Mostly Suzanne  
  
Rating: pg-13 I suppose  
  
Pairing: cj/toby Category: drama, angst, romance, life, pre/admin. There will be stuff during and after later. Disclaimer: sorkin, wells, warner, the people you recognize belong to them. There are also some that belong to me. Also, this plot is mine. But who owns anything in the creative world? A/N: this has been stewing for quite a while. It started out as connected drabbles but it just keeps growing. There should be about two more parts, but I'll let you know it that estimate changes. I'm dying for feedback, but mostly I hope you just enjoy the story.  
  
In Being Left Standing  
  
Part 1  
  
I.(162) Just an Invitation...  
  
Her eyes were huge. Wide, silver, the colour of the sky above a rainy sea. It was pouring with an indigo abandon that seems no longer to exist. That rain was the colour of my nostalgia.  
So were her eyes.  
I had startled her by walking by.  
She was standing out on the sidewalk, wobbling in high heels and staring at traffic. She had the haunted look of a victim. I bushed her elbow by accident, she turned to see me, looking lost.  
I apologized.  
(She scrutinized silently.) –Have I met you before?  
-No. I shake my head.  
-Have I seen you before? (Her eyes were narrowed with attempted recollection.)  
-Maybe. (I knew I'd seen her before. Every time I had I'd watched her.)  
-I'm CJ. Cregg. (desolation was slipping away)  
I introduced myself.  
She extended her hand, I took it and held it tightly. Her skin was moist. Mine was too. The rain was claiming us.  
  
II. (245) In Which She Declares...  
  
CJ is falling leaves. She is rose incense and she is Joni Mitchell albums in the morning and Romantic composers at night.  
CJ lounges sideways in the armchair, eating Raisinettes. She tosses one into the air to catch in her mouth and it bounces off her forehead. She sighs dramatically.  
She wears too much eye make-up on purpose because it makes her look waif-like. She's describing to you the ups and downs of last night's evening soap, which you had missed on purpose. But in her head CJ is chasing words.  
She pauses mid-sentence. "Inarguable!" she declares.  
"What?" you say. This is enough to have roused you from your editing. Your fingers are smudged with green highlighter. Close your notebook and drop it to the coffee table in a manner which declares, 'I'm giving you my full attention now, it better be good.'  
CJ is looking at you like she's had a revelation, or you are one, you're not sure which.  
"Inarguable," she repeats, pointing at you. "Tuesday I was trying to describe you to Thom, and there was this one word I couldn't find. It was inarguable."  
"Oh." You are not sure if this should be a compliment. "If I'm inarguable, why is it that so frequently you find reason to argue with me?"  
CJ knows you're teasing. She smiles enigmatically. She knows you are a fact of the world, of her life which cannot be argued. A Raisinette bounces off your chest and falls to your lap. You pick it up and toss it back. You still did that sort of thing then.  
  
III. (169) Now My Charms are Overthrown...  
  
When CJ announced that she was moving away she quoted Prospero. She watched his face with the diagnostic eye of a doctor.  
They never had been more than this, but this never felt less than anything else. Still, CJ could not turn down this opportunity. She had always known, the woman's fight was what she was meant for. He was not enough. He was not an excuse she could make to her parents, friends.  
A street tinted breeze lifted the curtains. If it weren't for the city below, the room would have been silent. She wondered if it was because she was only grace and not beauty that he was not going to make her stay, that she didn't see the expression she'd been hoping for despite herself.  
She knew he wasn't going to try to keep her here. She didn't have to tell him not to.  
-It's not that far, you could come visit, she said knowing it was a consolation prize.  
-Of course I'll come visit. And his was a consolation lie.  
He didn't offer to drive her to the airport.  
  
IV. (263) ...Sincerely, Your Friend.  
  
So then there were letters. And that was the real beginning of this thing, this thing that may turn out to be a catastrophe, or worse, only flame-dust. Whatever it is, it's nothing that you can seem to get a hold of.  
  
Maybe it's because she's tall, he thinks as he slides half a sheaf of legal size yellow paper covered in writing into a manila envelope. Maybe that's why she absorbs you with her presence, why I can't get her out of my head. [woohoo, like this]  
  
You receive the manila envelope. You receive postcards with too much written on them. You accept rumpled notes on paper with adhesive on the back. You half drown in a stream of letters torn out of spiral notebooks, and even a few on actual stationary (white, his initials at the top).  
You return the favor wholeheartedly, but always have this nagging feeling that one of these days he'll send your letter back, covered in green highlighter and red pen.  
  
Once he sent you three pages torn out of books (two from a novel, one of poetry), his handwriting carpeting the margin. You write to him, admonishing him harshly for defiling precious things. You are secretly happy, more than you should be, because the first line is "the sun lay in her hair like golden candy floss," and you know that means he misses you. [nice]  
  
And then you receive a cocktail napkin in a greeting card envelope that reads "why aren't you here?" with letters that teeter forward dangerously. You feel cold when you see it, and at the same time flushed with...something. You pretend it was lost in the mail, are relieved when he never mentions it.  
  
V. (302) Whatever Happened to Little Claudia?  
  
Claudia had one foot on the edge of everything in the world. Claudia also had one foot on the edge of the sidewalk. She could hear a game of Frisbee on the green over Jay's tirade against philosophy professors, and his in particular. The day was so lush that she could almost pretend to hear the grass growing.  
The four of them were headed off campus for lunch. Beside her walked Cassandra with the Red Hair, arm in arm with Sweet Ally. Jay walked backwards in front of them, to make sure they got the full affect. He never tripped or missed a beat.  
"Jay, for the sake of our sanity, give it a rest!" sighed Cassandra the Red emphatically (flirtatiously).  
Jay gave Cassandra The Smile, but fell in step beside her, so at least in this Claudia felt satisfied.  
Jay produced a cigarette out of nowhere, and then it was lit. Claudia didn't smoke, nor did she like it when people around her did. But she liked to watch Jay inhale. That was the only time he acted without pretension.  
"I shall never marry," Jay proclaimed "I shall live the life of a traveling photojournalist. And I won't let anyone give me failing grades on my philosophy of life." This is great!  
Claudia, who had let Jay kiss her in many places because he was taller than she (even when she wore heels), now felt infinitely young and stupid. But not surprised.  
Neither was she surprised when her foot slipped off the edge of the path and she crumpled to the grass. She still lived in a world here her illusions of feminine grace were cruelly unrealized.  
  
The grass smelled sweet and honest. It was spongy and damp, the colour she remembered from backyard soccer. Claudia had no real to desire to stand up.  
  
VI. (305)  
  
He stood so close to me. Close enough to see his face very clearly, to tell that he was a couple inches shorter than I am. Probably even in stocking feet. I could have sworn I knew him from somewhere, I wouldn't have been able to forget his eyes. Such dark eyes.  
"Are you sure that we've never met?" I was rolling the dice for a new answer.  
He shrugged and shook his head. He was smiling though, as though he had a secret. Maybe the ultimate secret.  
My head felt cold, my hair was wet. The shadows that were spread across us were soft edged. My skin felt clammy. I realized it was raining fervently. I hadn't noticed before.  
In this waning end of evening, his eyes were so dark they absorbed light. He wasn't particularly handsome, in any definition. I had no romantic inclinations toward him. But I wouldn't mind if I was absorbed by his eyes.  
"Why were you standing out here without," gestured to indicate her hatless head, her coatless shoulders, "Anything"  
"Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to enjoy the weather?"  
"I wouldn't."  
"Well. Then." Then I found my footing. I hadn't been clumsy for a while now. At that moment I was afraid that I might fall over. A girl can only take so much in a day. "What about you? You're out here too."  
"I asked you first."  
"Yes, but you're a gentleman. You won't insist." I ran a hand through my hair. There was water dripping from my bangs.  
He was not a man who could turn away in the face of a compliment. But he sighed before answering. "I came to catch a cab. Also, I have a hat."  
"Oh. That you do." I smiled. Mostly because I didn't feel about to fall anymore. Powerful (semi!)ending, magical transformation into CJ from Grace, you've captured her perfectly.  
  
End Part One. Title I: Just an invitation to the blues, Tommy Waits. Title II: mine Title III: Now my Charms are overthrown  
And what strength I have's my own  
...but release me from my bands,  
with the help of your good hands. Shakespeare. Title IV: The last line of Jennifer Warnes singing Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat. Title V: mine. I think. Please send feedback to tashanithpowatiyahoo.com or artisanessamsn.com. I need to know what you think of this style. And the story, of course. 


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